


goodnight

by Coshledak



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Dubious Consent, Implied non-con or dub-con, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Rape/Non-con Elements, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-14 13:34:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2193684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coshledak/pseuds/Coshledak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Imayoshi and Hanamiya do live shows on their pornography website. And sometimes Hanamiya's left to do them on his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	goodnight

**Author's Note:**

> In connection with a post I made the other day about Imayoshi and Hanamiya running their own pornography website. Uh. If you're heading into this expecting hardcore ImaHana sex or something, it doesn't happen. There's only really implied ImaHana, and a little bit of ImaHana at the end. Also, there's sort of two endings because I wasn't sure how I wanted to end it. So if you like the first ending then don't scroll down for the second one.

His apartment is dark when he gets home, but that’s nothing to be surprised by. The cat perks up from where she’s laying against the back of the couch, stretching her paws out in front of her and catching them in the material as she pushes her way forward. Her back arches like a wave under the shift of his hand when he runs it from the top of her head back to her tail, giving a little scratch right at the base. She purrs happily and jumps down, following him into the kitchen, and he pauses just long enough to plug his cell phone into the charge cord draped over the coffee table. She bumps against his feet and he laughs, stepping carefully so he can avoid her.

“Careful,” he scolds. “I don’t want to accidentally punt you across the kitchen again.”

She meows when he picks up the bowl for her food and reaches for the container on top of the fridge, continuing to chirp happily all the way until he sets it on the paw-shaped mat that her water bowl sits on as well. From there, he’s not significant until she’s eaten her fill and is ready for cuddles, which suits him just fine because he’d like a little time alone. He normally doesn’t get home so late, but work has been killing him recently and he’s had to stay after hours to deal with paperwork from clients. This is the third night in a row that he’s gotten home after seven when his shift ends at five.

There are two small consolations to this, and one is that it’ll be over by the end of the week. All the hard work is leading up to his summer hours, which means that he’ll have every other Friday off to relax. The other is that work pays the bills. It’s old-fashioned, of course, but paid bills means keeping his apartment, his cat, his hot water, and his Internet. That’s all he really needs.

He stretches his arms over his head as he migrates towards his bedroom and flips on the desk light, opens his laptop, and lets it get started while he changes into something more comfortable. It’s routine from there. He gives his work e-mail one more check over—just in case—before officially putting work out of his mind. From there he checks his scant social media, replies to a few messages: one from his mom about how things are going and others from some friends about plans for the weekend. It’s been a while since he went out, and, when work wraps up on Friday, going out for some drinks on Saturday sounds great.

The highlight is replying to a message from a woman at work. They’ve been flirting casually on-and-off for a few weeks now, since she started working. He suggested coffee, and her recent reply says that she’s definitely interested, but she’s busy this weekend. He’s not phased, since he’s busy, too, so he suggests a relaxing outing at a local café he knows of for the following week. He jokes slightly about setting his cubical on fire at work if he has to in order to get out of there in time for the date. Those sorts of jokes are hard to get across in messages, but one of the best things about her is that she really seems to get his sense of humor.

Once that’s settled, he opens a private window—the sort that doesn’t keep track of his browsing history—and closes the other one. He’s as annoyed as he is comforted by the fact that he has to type out the full web address for the website he wants. On the one hand, browser cookies have gotten him used to frequently visited webpages being a down arrow and enter key sequence away. On the other, the fact that his browser can’t remember any of that means that it’s—hopefully—doing its job. He’ll take the comfort over the convenience in this case.

The webpage catches for a moment on an entirely black screen before the images carefully patterned spider webs forms over it, like invisible spiders are moving just beneath the screen to make it. It’s on a random generator, meaning the webs load differently every time for each different person. Some of them have taken screen caps and showed them in the forums, even though it’s not like they spell out a particular message. The bulk of the construction forms in the center, laid over it, appearing only as a silhouette, appears a spider with two boxes patterned on its abdomen: username and password. Above the username box is the usual: “Not a member? Register with us” sign and, below it, is the warning about adult content and meeting the age requirements. A link is provided about a pricing page, but he doesn’t need to see any of that. He’s been a member for months now.

The second he’s signed in, a message pops up from the site’s private chat service. It appears abruptly at the bottom right of his screen before the rest of the page has even finished loading. The home page is just an update page, anyway, and none of the notifications posted by the owners are marked in red, meaning no price hikes or serious injuries. He looks at the chat window instead.

_WeepWillow: where are you?_  
 _WeepWillow: you’ve GOT to check out the online stream!_  
 _WeepWillow: GO GO GO GO_

He doesn’t bother replying, even though it lists WeepWillow as being online with a small, green dot beside his name. Instead he scans the tabs along the top of the page: Home | Pricing | Videos | Photos | Livestream | Your Account

There’s a pixilated version of the word “STREAM” pasted over the word “Livestream” in the tab, meaning that it’s currently online. His stomach tangles like the formation of webs on the “Welcome” page and he feels his mouth run wet and dry at the same time when he moves the cursor to click it. It’s moments like these when paying for the fastest Internet available is worth it.

The page loads quickly: inside the gray panel pasted over the spider-web background appears a video player, black for a split second before it loads. The chat along the right hand side loads first, though, where people are already buzzing about what’s going on. He sees WeepWillow’s name flick by before it’s out done with other messages and cleared from the communication queue. He doesn’t notice it much, because his attention is on the video itself.

A pale body is writhing on a bed in the dim lighting of the room, his arms restrained over his head and bound together at the wrists. There are cuffs on his ankles, too, attached to a spreader bar that keeps his legs stretched wide and the rest of him exposed. Open. Vulnerable. A thin chain continues from each ankle down to opposite foot ends of the bed, but it’s loose enough that he can still squirm, giving glimpses of the thick vibrator inside of him that’s, undoubtedly, causing the fuss. That and the leather and rubber harness wrapped around his swollen erection. In just the few minutes he watches, he can see where a strap is wedged between his sac, connecting it to the ring around the base of his cock, then a second strap from there back to the thicker one that seems to be trying to separate his body from his groin. 

It’s clear that he’s been there for a while, because his erection looks strained and nearly painful with the need to come. The figure on the bed lifts his hips up into the empty air helplessly, the restraint bar on his ankles keeping him from turning himself over to even rut against the bed. The web cams pick up a thin glimmer of sweat along his whole body, and he spasms occasionally, arching off the bed as he yanks on his wrists, fighting the cuffs. Metal clicks with each movement, coupled with the helpless, broken moans that slip, muffled, past the bit separating his teeth and lips. 

All of it sends heat low in his body in such a rush that he leans back into his chair, shifting his legs a little to abate some of the discomfort but the friction makes him nearly groan. He bites his lower lip, hard, and redirects his eyes to the chatroom where people are still talking. He sees what he says more than he reads their usernames, though they appear in a wide array of colors, all selected by the account holder participating.

_Wonder what he did this time._  
 _who cares!?!?!?!_  
 _hottt_  
 _he probably deserves it_  
 _SEXY SEXY_  
 _of course he does, jeez. that’s the whole point_  
 _whoaaaa check out cam2!_  
 _Think he’s gonna come soon?_  
 _haha, i dunno can he?_  
 _wish I knew who he was, there are some things I’d kill to do to him_  
 _that’s definitely why we don’t know who they are, idiot_

The chat doesn’t go dead, even as the figure they’re all discussing squirms and whines for release as part of their paid enjoyment. It sounds like he’s trying to form words around the gag, but it’s hard to say, and most of them don’t care to try to find out. There’s an automatic pitch adjuster, so they wouldn’t be able to figure out anything from hearing his voice, though it’s hardly a challenge to imagine that he’s begging. His legs and arms look weak, and the Voyeur finds himself wondering if, under the leather strapped over his eyes, he isn’t crying with need.

The lightheadedness passes and he sinks a little more comfortably into his chair as he watches the screen, dropping his hand down under his shorts and sweatpants. The chat window keeps going, but there’s no sound to disturb him, nothing to distract him from the ones coming from the figure on the screen. 

Part of it is viewing and part is hearing but the biggest part is _imagining_. He pictures coming home to that in real life, walking into his bedroom to find those slim hips and that greedy body waiting for him. Needing him. The Voyeur imagines to himself what it would be like for his little toy to hear the bedroom door open and know that he was home—or, better yet, to hear the apartment door and nothing else. To hear him moving around just outside, ignoring him, leaving him on the bed to ache for him like he has been all day. He imagines hearing him cry out and whine, desperate for attention, feeling stretched out and neglected.

His hand tightens around his length and picks up speed for a moment before he stops to soften the friction with some of the lotion sitting on his desk. Before he can delve back into his fantasy, a muffled scream comes as the young man’s legs spasm on the bed, pull on the spreader bar and he bends his knees slightly. He twitches them, exposes his stuffed hole a little more, and he taps the button to switch himself to camera three, moving from a side vide to a view from the foot of the bed. An indicator light on the bottom shows that it’s been pushed up to the maximum vibration, and whimpers follow the scream when his little toy’s voice can’t keep up. He moves like he’s trying to get it out, but the vibrator doesn’t budge and instead his legs tremble, swaying, their movement heavily limited by the bar holding them apart. 

He continues moving his hand as the lights go back down, the vibration lessens to something halfway, and pictures himself taking it out. His whole body feels hot as he imagines shoving his fingers inside and telling him how loose and soft he feels now, pressing against the walls made sensitive by the vibration. He smells sweat and sex as the young man shakes his head, whines, embarrassed about his body, about being loose and loving it. He sees his flushed skin and the saliva tracks from the edge of his mouth and tells him how much he must have wanted it. Flicks the tip of his length and makes his hips jerk as he points out how hard he is from just a toy, still with his fingers buried inside.

The Voyeur fucks him until he’s begging around the gag, so helpless and frantic with the need to come that it doesn’t matter that he can’t actually form words. He responds to the pleading by pointing out how loose he is that maybe he should fuck him with the vibrator still inside that way he’ll be tighter, and the toy furiously shakes his head. He implores with his body because he can’t with his mouth, and he tries to tighten the overworked muscles around his length as he keeps thrusting. He tries to be a good little pet, but the Voyeur talks about letting two coworkers use him instead, letting them fuck him at the same time since he’s already so stretched out. It’d be perfect. He whimpers in time with the sounds from the video, shakes his head, pulls on his restraints and pleads not that. Not that.

He comes all over his stomach and hand before he’s even out of ideas. His whole body is burning with imagination and afterglow so bright that it might as well be the whole fire. He lets his hand drop to the side for the moment, until he catches his breath and can move to grab several tissues out of the box on his desk, cleaning himself and his stomach off. It takes him a few minutes to get himself together again, satisfied, and he’s thinking a shower will be the perfect way to get rid of the rest of that tension. On his screen, he realizes he’s missed the ten, five, and two minute warnings posted by the website’s owner in the chat, and the feed has cut to dead air. Just a black screen. He closes the private window.

He relaxes into his chair until he hears his cat pawing at the bedroom door, curious, and smiles to himself as he gets up to let her in for a few minutes before he heads to the bathroom.

x-x-x-x

Imayoshi idly runs his fingers through Hanamiya’s hair more out of the inclination to fidget than any particular desire to be sweet with him. He’s sure he would get scolded for it if Hanamiya were awake, but he’s dead to the world, passed out against Imayoshi’s chest where he’d been looking at the day’s stats from the website with him. In his words, it was just more convenient to lay there and let Imayoshi do the scrolling than it was to do anything else. Besides, he insisted it would be at least a day before he’s able to sit up again.

Truthfully, Imayoshi doesn’t care, because one day is certainly worth the money they brought in this evening. Though they charge a flat fee for access to the website itself, including photos and videos, live shows cost extra. A few people pay monthly for a premium that allows access to all of it, but some pay by the show. Between the two of them, he’s set on upcoming tuition and extra materials for school. Definitely worth it. Well, and the added bonus of Hanamiya’s silent unconsciousness.

He closes his laptop and sets it aside, a movement that stirs Hanamiya—with a groan—to shift back to his own side of the bed, where he curls up with his back facing Imayoshi. He chuckles as he turns the light off and settles down into bed, laying on his back, saying too pleasantly, “Goodnight, Makoto.”

 

 

x-x-x-x SECOND ENDING x-x-x-x

Showered and having finished another chapter in his book, the Voyeur pats his bed until his pretty Calico jumps up on it, stretching out in the open space next to him. He turns the bedside light off and rolls onto his side so that he can pet her, smiling in the dark to himself while she purrs. But his mind is somewhere else, with someone else, though he says the words to his cat and empty air.

“Goodnight, Hanamiya.”


End file.
